The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E25

Episode Date: February 28, 2021

It’s Episode 25 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey concludes with Jared Robert’s epic tale, “Sunburn”. “Sunburn” written by Jared RobertsProduced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Julie (Narrator) – Kristen DiMercurio, Paul Ferron – Mick Wingert, Mr. Rook – Peter Lewis, Mr. Swayne – David Cummings, Blanchford – Nikolle Doolin, Penny – Erin Lillis, Housekeeper – Mary Murphy, Judy – Nichole Goodnight, Dot – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Gianna – Nikolle Doolin, Zax – Mike DelGaudio, Bev – Danielle McRae, Stella – Alexis Bristowe, Jake – Dan Zappulla, Man in Car – Mick Wingert, Mulberry – Graham Rowat, Ruby – Wafiyyah White, Stewart – Andrew Tate, Goon – Atticus Jackson, Rinalto – Andy Cresswell, Morgan Freeman – Gregory Whitfield, Boys – Erika Sanderson, Mrs. Mulberry – Erika Sanderson Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about Jared Roberts Click here to learn more about Kristen DiMercurio Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Sunburn” illustration courtesy of Jörn Audio program ©2021 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The No Sleep Podcast has spent its 15th season traveling down this lost highway. In the season finale, that journey has come to an end. We are proud to conclude this season with a tale from author Jared Roberts. This audio adaptation stars Kristen DiMecurio as Julie, a woman thrust into a mind-bending world where time, space and reality will be forever changed. Energy is all around us. It streams through space.

It warms us. It enlightens us. And it alters us. Embrace the change. Feel the heat. Give in to the sunburn. Let me paint you a little tableau. 2001, a perfect summer day, all breeze and birds.

By coincidence, the very day Timothy McVeigh was executed for the Oklahoma City bombing. Two preteen girls, their bronzed skin glistening with sunblock and sweat, dance across the hot asphalt. A gentle breeze scatters the hair of one, like sunbeams. They'd just been to the little beach down the cul-de-sac for a swim. They're still laughing about the man who'd been watching. them. Now they bask wantonly in the sun on plastic fuchsia lounge chairs. Not a care for the devastating effects of UV, the peeping boys across the street, the death of Timothy McVey. Not a care

at all. It was the kind of day one of those girls thought of as pure, utter freedom. They had stayed up all night watching late-night TV until the infomercials took over. They'd talked about boys and their hopes for the future. Today was a day without a need to be or do anything. It just was. That girl flipped idly through a tabloid for the catty remarks about celebrity fashion, and nothing meant anything. She hadn't even noticed her friend slip out of her lounge chair and head toward the road. When she finally peered from over her neon green glasses, her friend was leaning against a post, talking to a man. He leaned out of his car window. Snippets of conversation from the man, Judy, the boys across the street,

snippets floated over the breeze like strange leaves with no sense or reason. That's what's so odd about the South African judicial system. At the top of the tower. By the power of gray skull. And that's how it is, just like photons. I dream of it. It's so bright. I'm not sure I'm here now.

It's all broken. Your pictures. Electromagnet. Electromagnetism. Huntington's gas. She'd never seen the man before, she realized. It alarmed her that it hadn't alarmed her. Who was he? What did he want? Why was her friend talking to him? What were they talking about? It didn't mean anything. She went back to her magazine, resolved to ask who that was. Time to set things right. Oh, God, oh God, oh God. I'm so fucking scared right now. I dropped the magazine and sprang from the lounge chair. Despite the heat, I felt terribly cold. I scanned my surroundings, shielding the tops of my sunglasses with one hand.

Nobody was nearby, but the car was gone. And my best friend was gone. The boys across the street were writhing on the ground, crying. The man from the beach was walking up the cold. Oldesac carrying a dead seagull in one hand. He fell to his knees. A window broke somewhere in the distance. And nothing was ever the same from that moment on.

But I didn't know that until 15 years later. I knew it was coming. Not in a Miss Cleo way. I read the clues. I didn't have to be the Da Vinci Code guy to figure it out. At first it was the way he looked at me. Little glances from under carefully lowered, bushy brows toward my chest.

I don't even show cleavage most of the time. I just have a healthy, average chest. I can't put them anywhere else. Then I swear, I caught him tilting slightly, so he could catch a reflection of my thigh on his own bald head, which he was watching in the stainless steel surface of the office curing machine. I almost admired the dedication. That was Mr. Jonathan P. Swain, SVP.

not my direct supervisor, someone a few ranks above me, someone who could have ruined my career with a casual word. Casual words, he did speak. You should smile more. You're so pretty when you smile. And if my wife were as young and pretty as you, I'd never leave home. I did what so many women do in my situation. I ignored it.

I told myself, he's just old-fashioned. He's only 50, but he probably picked it up from his dad, who picked it up from, I do not have to justify it for him. That's part of the problem right there. Come on, Julie, why are you justifying it for him? That's what I was thinking then. I argue with myself a lot.

Anyway, I asked Bev, the business analyst who sits across from me if she's had issues with him. Oh, honey, she said. That was it, like I was asking her where babies come from. I guess she's right. It really was news for me. I was only 26 at the time. I'd just gotten out of college

where I kept so busy with studies, student teaching, kickboxing, and extreme mixology that I didn't have time to be sexually harassed. I'd only been in the job for three months when the pervy claws sprung. I was sitting beside him because he was showing me a new report on the efficiency of our call routing.

When I felt his hand gripped the unsoliciting flesh of my left thigh. Despite the fact that I could almost certainly snap his neck with one good kick from that leg, It was paralyzed. Like, it wasn't even a part of my body anymore. I felt completely helpless, disconnected. This is objectification, is what flashed through my mind,

because I'd always thought it was a stupid term. It's different when you feel it. What set me over the edge and gave me back my strength was the way he stayed focused on the spreadsheet, as though it were an aphrodisiac, as if just the term spreadsheet were getting him hot, thinking of spreading me on the sheets, finding the right formula to penetrate my data matrix or whatever. I got mad.

Then I got smart mad. I stood up, kept my composure, and set my boundaries. Mr. Swain, I am not okay with being touched, handled, felt, molested, or sized up in my place of work or anywhere else without my permission. This is not okay. I hadn't even figured out what step two was going to be. I expected him to laugh me off, saying, Goldie, that's what he called me, because I have blonde hair. Make me a sandwich already.

Or maybe to blush and sputter incoherently. What actually happened was so much worse. Julie, I truly apologize. I misinterpreted our relationship. However, even that being so, I had no right to impose on you in this way, and it should not have happened. It is absolutely unfair to you to make you feel uncomfortable in your place of employment.

We need to go to HR together right now. He spoke with such professional anguish. I was too stunned to reply. Again, I was left helpless, motionless. I was objectified by the apology? I don't know. If I leave you to go on your own now, you'll always be wondering when the retaliation is going to happen. It is unconscionable that you already victimized right here in my office should be victimized again with that concern. That's quite all right. You clearly regret your decision.

Stop, please. This is not a strategy. Don't devalue yourself or lose your nerve because you feel I'm a good guy now. I made a choice. We need to bring this to the appropriate department and allow them to judge impartially. I... Okay. If you're okay with it... I said it like I needed his permission to report him for harassment. I felt so small and foolish, but I couldn't help myself. I almost said, because I wouldn't want this to happen to someone else. But I didn't say that, because I didn't want to offend him.

I didn't want to offend him. We walked together, he with confident strides to the office of our HR manager. I felt glances all over us, but I didn't dare look to see who they were coming from. I was hoping the whole way that our HR manager would be busy. She wasn't. She was sitting at her desk, door wide open, swiveled toward the entrance, and smiling. Like she was just staring into space smiling before we even arrived. Welcome.

What's going on? There we go. There's no easy way to say it, so let's just get it out. I sexually harassed this woman. I used my power and influence to lay an unwanted hand. hand on her thigh. Julie, do you confirm this? I, well, yeah, he did put a hand on my thigh.

Is this the first incident? It's the first time he touched. So there have been non-tactile incidents? Looking at my... Hmm, surreptitious glancing. Mr. Swain was nodding with the profoundest look of shame and dejection. but also with a confidence that was frightening. It's like there were two puppeteers controlling his body,

and neither one had read the script. She pulled a large sketchpad out from under her desk and set it on the surface where there was very little work to get in the way. Just a book called Telephony by one Paul Farron, which I figured to serve as a paperweight. Then she pulled a Sharpie out of a drawer that contained dozens of Sharpies. She drew three concentric circles on the pad with the Sharpie. The inner circle was much smaller than the other two.

At first I thought she was drawing a breast with a grossly oversized ariola. This is a wheel. Because here at this company, the wheels turn fast. Mr. Swain, I expect you have no problem signing this document, confirming your involuntary separation from the company. No, wait, isn't that... He turned fast, Julie. Mr. Swain stepped up like he'd just won a prize on the Price's Right,

signed the document she produced, and turned to me. Julie, you're a good employee. It's been a pleasure working with you. I'd shake your hand, but it's better we keep physical contact out of it. Always stay on your guard. He bowed ceremoniously. While he bowed, he looked deep into my eyes, not with lust or seething hatred.

Like he was trying to tell me. Tell me something. The HR manager, a woman named Blanchford, cleared her throat aggressively and asked Mithraswain to leave immediately. He left with such dignity. Is that all? Almost. I need you to sign this paper over here confirming what has transpired today.

Transpired. I was confused because there was no way she could have written up exactly what had transpired. You have been heard. You have a voice in this company, and this company's got some big old ears. Okay? Sign. Yeah, just like that. I only skimmed the paragraphs because I just wanted to get away.

She seized the paper immediately. Okay, you can go. You sure that's it? On your end. You've been through enough. We'll take it from here. What else could you do? "'There's always more to be done.'

"'Mr. Swain had already begun packing up his stuff. "'Another manager was standing at the door "'waiting to escort him out as I walked by. "'Wow,' Bev said, without turning away from her work. "'I ignored her. "'I ignored everyone I thought was looking at me, "'accusing me. "'Not that there was ever much love for Swain.

"'He was your average executive. "'You were in there for over an hour,' "'she said, still not looking. I thought she had to be talking to someone else. It only took a few minutes for the whole process. The wheels turned fast and all. I tried to go back to my work, like nothing happened.

But I couldn't focus on the damn thing. I felt awful. I shouldn't have. I mean, nobody asked him to put his stupid hand on my thigh. Yet, I felt like I was the bad guy? While I was sitting there feeling worse by the second, I got an email from the HR manager telling me, Take the next three days off.

Paid. You need time to process. Time to process. There's a term you hear all the time. What does that even mean? Process. Is my weak, female mind so frazzled by inappropriate contact that I need three days to comprehend it?

No. He did wrong. I called him out. Let's move on. Firing him on the spot in front of me was more traumatic than the harassment. Maybe that's what I needed to process. Like Goodwill Hunt.

It's not my fault. I thought about all the things I could and should do with my windfall of time, like learning to kayak or grow pumpkins. But I couldn't get it out of my head. Why did Mr. Swain do what he did? It's like he wanted to get fired. Was he planning this for days? Weeks? Did it just occur to him on the spot?

What did he tell his wife? I hate mysteries. I can't abide mysteries. in my life, not since that perfect summer day in 2001, when two girls came up from the beach to lounge in the sun, and then something happened. Judy disappeared that day. We never got her back. She was just gone, and nobody could figure out where. Her mother would get a call once every year from someone claiming to be Judy, but she didn't sound right. She, Judy, would say she's okay, talk about banal things, like what happened on Family Feud.

But it was always made up. Whatever she said happened on whatever TV show didn't really happen. It was spooky. I lost touch years ago, so I don't know if that still goes on. It's haunted me my whole life. Everything should have an explanation. That's my way of dealing with it, I guess, explaining everything. So I made the fateful decision to contact Mr. Swain and ask him.

I had to know. I couldn't find a phone number listed for him, just an address. I felt both stupid and irrationally proud, standing on his doorstep after what happened. Like, I have some balls. Mr. Swain didn't answer the door, though. A chubby, middle-aged lady did. My fictional balls shriveled. What if she knows? Hi, Mrs. Swain. She looked startled, horrified, and odd all at once. I winced, waiting for the yelling to start. You're her! She knew. I blubbered apologies as though anything were my fault, but she wasn't listening. You're the girl from the pictures.

I feel as if I've known you for years. When I asked her what pictures she meant, she looked less sure. She touched her face delicately, and I noticed she was missing her left thumb. With her other hand, she grabbed my arm. I couldn't help but notice. She was missing both thumbs. Come along now. Let's have a look in the study.

I assumed Mr. Swain was in the study. She didn't say. She politely dragged me through the halls of Mr. Swain's rather chic mini-mantion, chic but otherwise devoid of personality. She chattered the entire way, as if terrified of dead air. Yes, I always wondered if we might meet face-to-face. Jonathan will be terribly sad he missed you. I've dusted you off many times.

Look at all these walls. Look at that. Wall, wall, wall. It was like watching you grow up. And look at you. A fine young woman. I think there's no better time to be you than right now. I'd be you now if I could.

But it'd be quite a process. Sorry? Here we are. The object of study appeared to be me. I understood much more of what she'd been rambling now. Most of the fine wood paneling had been covered by glossy pictures of me. Half-hazardly thumb-tacked everywhere, in many cases overlapping. Some harvested from social media, some from security cameras,

and others from yearbooks, childhood events, you name it. It finally hit. Years. Years. Years. I walked to his desk in slow, stiff steps, like a robot. It was a nice desk. Cherry, I think.

I don't know much about wood, something I'd like to learn about. But on the desk were notes about me. I don't remember verbatim. Notes about what I was doing, how I was reacting to the hints and harassment, and what I was doing and saying to other people. Stop notes. What is this?

Mrs. Swain. Oh, I'm just a housekeeper. Jonathan's mother died many years ago, dear. She was a pain anyway. Good thing he only had the one. I almost said, I'm sorry, but I caught myself. I wasn't sorry at all. No wife?

Oh, no. Why would he? He didn't even have a wife. Everything he said was staged. The harassment lines were what, Found online or cribbed from a Hallmark movie? It was all about me. I know how egotistical that sounds, but it was.

His life's work was me, apparently. My boring existence. You shouldn't be reading those. That's full of secrets. I got the feeling she was pressing me to keep reading, and I took the bait. The next note read, Dreams of Climbing Tree.

I remembered it. A few weeks before, I'd dreamed of climbing this towering oak and at the top was just what I needed, though I didn't know what. I hadn't told anyone. Why would I? He knew my dream. How was that possible? It frightened me in such a deep, existential way. I couldn't hope to express it. It was more violating than anything that happened at work. I demanded to know where Mr. Swain was, not knowing what I'd do when I found him. She answered as if it were common knowledge where he was. Jonathan's gone into the desert to purify himself.

I don't think he'd want to be disturbed. But I'm disturbed. I'm disturbed. It was like shouting at a glass of milk. She just stood there, cold and white. As I turned to storm out, I noticed a new set of pictures. They were on the wall with the door, so I didn't see her until I turned around. Pictures of Judy.

One's I'd never seen before. Some of them, she looked older than when she'd disappeared. He knows what happened to her, I thought. I just felt it. Why does he have these? That's Judy. Jonathan's little girl. Beautiful little girl.

She's not with us any longer. I felt a cold pit open in my heart. I could scarcely breathe. Then I was weightless and falling, falling from that oak tree, in free fall, in space. Judy was there. and so much light. And then she was gone, and I woke up to find the housekeeper pouring tea, gripping the handle firmly with her four fingers.

He kidnapped her. He was the man in the car. When I was a girl your age, I was hiking a trail normally used by hunters to get to their scaffolds. I found a brown paper back. Look, I need to go. I need to get the police. I wouldn't normally just pick up a brown paper bag,

except there was no other litter around. Would you guess what I found in that brown paper bag, dear? Hey, I need to go. In the bottom of that back. Four, human, penises. They'd been cut off. They were of different sizes. One of them impressive.

I stopped protesting and just tried to get up, but I felt so weak. For the first time since arriving to that house, I realized I might be in danger. You can go when you finished your tea. I can't let you drive in your present state. Now, this bag clearly represented a major sacrifice before men. I decided to try, all by myself, to find the men these penises belong to. I took each penis out of the brown paper bag and I sniffed it.

And I knew if I found a man with that smell, it was his. Do you think I ever found one of those men? No, there were no such men. No bodies were found without penises. No men ever struck me as belonging to these penises, and I sniffed many. I believe. I truly believe. That bag and those penises are not from this world.

Things slip through, dear. Things slipped through. I wiped the tea that dribbled down my chin and neck with a cloth napkin she'd provided. I'd managed to drain the cup in the time she'd been speaking and now had awful sweats. She watched me rise to my feet and make my escape. I called out one last piece of advice to her. You should have turned them over to the police. Yes, I'm such a dummy sometimes.

When I got home, I sat on the floor in front of the TV and cried. Rachel Maddow was on and I don't even care about her insightful commentary. Life was making less sense all the time. I didn't need politics to reinforce that. Sometime before Maddow was over, I got a call from a private number. I took a deep breath and answered, thinking it might be Mr. Swain. I took some time recognizing the voice of the HR manager. She wanted to know how processing was going.

I wasn't relieved. Her voice inexplicably put me on edge. She sounded filtered and distant. But I needed to talk to someone. so I told her what had happened. Oh. That puts a new complexion on the matter. What should I do?

Should I go to the police? What can they do? They don't care about us. We're on our own in this world, Julie. Only 8% of rape cases end in conviction. Even those men are sentenced no more than two months. We're on our own. Here's what you do.

Hop in your nice Japanese sedan. Take the interstate toward Oklahoma. Exit at Skelly Town. It's a blip. Don't miss it. In Skeletown, follow the country road past the half-burnt Texaco. You'll know what to do when you get there. What?

Why? That's where he goes. She made quick salutations and was gone. I didn't doubt her. I just couldn't imagine where she got that information, or why she'd encourage me to go there. Lesser mysteries, I supposed. Even in the dark, I had no trouble finding the half-burnt Texaco.

There wasn't much else to see in Skellytown. The country road soon turned into a dirt road that seemed to go on forever. A lot of road for a few trailers that didn't even warrant mailboxes. I grew increasingly nervous as I progressed down this road. Until I came upon, a BMW pulled off the side of the road. I circled around it on foot trying to see if he was sleeping inside, but it was empty, empty and immaculately clean. Far down the road, someone had come out of his trailer to observe.

He stood silently in his doorway, holding what looked like a dead chicken, watching me. I considered just getting in my nice Japanese sedan and leaving. I would have. if I hadn't seen the orange spark far out in the darkness. Someone had a fire going out there, off the road, in the desert. I'd come all this way, I thought. I was going to see if it was Mr. Swain. Along the way, I thought about what I would say to him.

I still didn't know where to begin. The two mysteries of my life had converged on this one man who had been stalking me. Had he been stalking me since taking Judy? Why didn't he just kidnap me too? Long ago. Did he still have her alive somewhere? I walked for over an hour before I could make out a figure near the fire. I instantly grew apprehensive. What if that wasn't Mr. Swain?

What if this is a spot for drug deals? What about the dead chicken guy? What was he doing to my Camry? Judy was the night person. She was the one that wanted to stay up all night at sleepovers. Watch scary movies. Or go out into the night and hide and watch what people got up to? or look at the stars.

She loved just looking at the stars, wondering what all was out there. I wanted to stay indoors and work out to her mom's tie bow tapes. At the time, I thought she was the dork. Hindsight. I was drawing closer to the fire now. The man in front of it still hadn't taken any notice of me.

Given nobody else was around for miles, I thought this was odd. Maybe he was dead. A thought that did not help my nerves. When I was close enough to feel the warmth of the fire, I stopped. I wasn't taking a step further without permission, so I called out. Come! I approached cautiously.

Mr. Swain sat against a rock shirtless and covered in dirt. The atmosphere was strange, charged with some spooky gravity, but I didn't feel threatened. At least, not by him. Julie, why'd you come out here? How'd you find me? I didn't come to answer your questions. I saw the pictures of me in your study. But I...

You... I saw Judy, too. Your housekeeper fed me some bullshit, but let me tell you how I figure it. You saw two teen girls about 15 years ago, carefree, naive like teen girls should be, enjoying a beautiful summer day. While her friend was distracted with a magazine, you grabbed one of the girls.

That wasn't enough, though. You got obsessed with the other girl, started following her. maybe waiting for the right time to grab her or two. Maybe you knew Blanchford would send me home for processing, and you're preparing a spot in the desert for me right now. He sighed and leaned back against a mound of desert soil. He stretched out his arms to the sky. People know where I am.

I'm not that stupid. The reason I come here to this spot, this is where I can hear the voice. It started years ago. Are you going to tell me about Judy? You're a curious person. You know much about cosmology. Quasars are immensely powerful forces in the universe.

Oh, we just can't even imagine. So much matter and energy packed into an infinitesimal space. Mass, billions of times that of our sun. All that stuff. And all there is is stuff. You and me. Stuff. Just stuff organized in a more complex way.

In the Quasar, all that organization is taken away, and it's pure potential, almost without limit. I want to know about... Julie, just listen. You walked miles in the desert at night. Get your money's worth. What happened is, a few years ago, the light of an ancient Quasar, almost as old as the universe itself. give or take a few hundred million years, finally reached us. The energy from this immense power reached out and touched us from the murk when existence was new.

It spoke to me. I started to see things clearer. I started to understand why things are the way they are and to see the underneath of things. Did you hear that? That was when I started to make sense of the day my daughter went missing. I realized she hadn't been kidnapped by ghost-like men who could come and go without any evidence. She didn't run away or fall into a well. She just disappeared.

She's still out there, but somewhere else. That was Judy. Now, I need you to listen really carefully, Julie. The same moment my Judy disappeared, something else happened. I don't believe your story. Grant for a moment that I am telling the truth. As you can imagine, I studied that moment thoroughly. I looked and looked.

I could account for almost everything on that day she vanished, until I found out about you. The Quasar helped me to see it. See, at the moment Judy disappeared, poof, there you are. Listen to what I'm telling you. You were never here. until Judy wasn't. I didn't just take this on faith.

I tried to find pictures, documents, testimony of you existing before that day. There isn't any. What you're saying doesn't make sense. I was trying to project confidence, but I sounded stupid and whiny. That's when I got interested in you. If I could understand you well enough,

know why you're here and what you're about. Maybe I can understand why Judy's not here. Maybe I can get my Judy back. I've spent most of the last several years following your progress and activities, cataloging your existence. You seem oblivious to what you are. If you asked a computer virus, what are you? Don't you think it'd say, why, I'm a program.

If you ask a weed, what are you? I'm a flower. You see? You're crazy. I know who and what I am. And I know Judy, too. I remember staying up late watching Saturday Night Live with her when we should have been asleep. I remember the day she disappeared when she was talking to some strange man, then she was gone.

That strange man was you. This delusion? It's to help you sleep better at night. Oh, no, Judy was always alone. She had an imaginary friend she named Julia. I thought it was charming because she chose a name so close to her own. She always wanted a sister. She told me stories about Julia, how you were afraid of the dark,

so I had to leave a nightlight on when she was pretending you were in the room. She'd put on exercise tapes and leave the room because Julia wants strong legs. She said where you came from, there were monsters, and that's why you're scared of the dark, and that's why you need strong legs. That time, I knew I'd heard something, unlike anything I'd heard before. I gasped. I drew nearer the fire, tried to absorb it. its warmth. Mr. Swain leaned forward. I saw the madness in his eyes as the flames licked fiendishly

in front of his face. It's almost like she transformed into you. There was Judy, there was no Julie, then there was no Judy, and there was Julie. She was kidnapped by a man. I saw her talking to him. He hung out of a silver car, and he made her laugh. Her mother receives calls from her once a year, Because he lets her. Or at least, she used to. Her father was never in her life. Judy's mother died when she was three, Julie. I drew even closer to the fire, but I couldn't stop shaking. I came here for answers, and all I'm getting is lies. If you don't believe me, maybe you'll believe Judy. I can call her once a year, because that's all I can afford. I have to bribe the guards,

you see? I don't see. There's a tower, a wireless tower, at a DOE installation out here. It's very old and very powerful. I don't know what it was built for, but I know with that tower I can talk to her. She sounds different, but it's her. You brought them with you. What?

I don't have a housekeeper, Julie. I... What is it? I could feel panic digging into the bone. my eyes watering. Quick, throw them in the fire before it finds us. I don't know what you mean. Oh, your pockets!

I only have keys! Get them out into the fire! What is... God damn it! I reached into my pockets to display the keys. I felt something warm and gelatinous, something purely revolting. I pulled it out into the firelight,

a severed thumb. I threw it into the fire on reflex, a puff of yellow smoke accompanied its scorching. It's getting clueling. Closer. What is? One of them. One of what?

They don't want me listening or talking. They want to stop me. They want to claw their way inside. Make a hole inside us and climb deep inside. They're not going to, though. He drew out a knife. It wasn't a kitchen knife. It was like a ceremonial blade.

Before I knew what was happening, he jabbed the blade into his eye. Blood poured over his face, and he was screaming. I looked around helplessly. I had taken CPR classes, but nothing prepared me for this. He dislodged the blade himself. He sat there, holding it in front of his face, panting. I asked if he was okay, but he ignored me. Why are you doing this?

They can't get me if I can't see them. I was shown. I felt the dust kick against me as something ran past. You're screwed. It'll claw a hole into your body and enter your inner world. I stopped listening. I grabbed a half-burnt log from the fire to use a protection, and then I took running. I don't even know if I was going the right direction.

I just ran as fast as I could. I felt like something was right behind me, the whole way. I could almost feel the breath on the back of my neck, but it had to be my imagination. In the distance I heard Mr. Swain's screams. I intended to send help if I made it out myself. I saw a light and ran toward it. The log had long outlived its usefulness. I tossed it behind me.

I never heard it hit the ground. I didn't stop to examine. I felt my lungs were going to burst. The light was coming from the chicken guy's trailer, but he wasn't there anymore. My car, however, was where I'd left it. I had the fob ready. I was in the car and out of there faster than I believe.

believed possible. I made it to the nearest police station without further incident. The whole drive I kept seeing the blade sink into Mr. Swain's eye and hearing his screams. Not the Skelly Town Sheriff's Office, by the way. I drove out of town to a real police station. I was still coughing from my desert sprint and not as coherent as I would have liked. Officer Mulberry, if I recall, was the one who really listened. He contacted the sheriff back in Skellytown and let them know a man had just injured himself in the desert. He left out the rest. I was given coffee, a sandwich lovingly made by Mrs. Mulberry, and a blanket, compensation for having to wait while the sheriff did his thing. A few hours later, I noticed strange looks being directed my way. Officers, more of them than there

had been, congregating into huddles to converse. Mulberry sat beside me with a notepad and explained they had a lot of questions, but he didn't actually ask any questions. He delivered statements. Did not find your boss, Jonathan Swain. Although there was blood, there was neither a body nor a car. Your human resources manager, Helen Blanchford, denies telling you to speak to the recently terminated Jonathan Swain. She specifically stated that it is not company policy to initiate contact between employees

and former employees. She also denied calling you at all. We had your local PD check the Swain home. He was not there, nor was there a housekeeper, nor any photographs of you. The only thing peculiar in that instance is the door was left wide open, which is why they were able to enter the house without a warrant. All evidence right now points to a scenario in which you confront an executive at home for perceived harassment. He is summarily separated from the company.

You then pursue the man to his home and, finding it empty, break in the front door and ransack his home. office. You find some indication of where he went to clear his head following a stressful incident. You follow him to that location. There, you assault him, fleeing here with a concocted story to make yourself appear innocent. Alternatively, you yourself incapacitated him at home and brought him to the desert to torture and murder him. Your car is being processed now. I regret letting you eat my sandwich. It was my favorite. Bologna. Bologna. Bologna is my favorite. I tried frequently to interrupt him, to explain his spin on the facts was all wrong, that the HR manager was lying through her big stupid teeth.

But he bulldozered through my minor interruptions with a verbal wall of erroneous logic. Much like his sandwich, it was baloney, and he seemed to like that. When he was done and I thought I could finally speak, he strongly suggested I keep quiet until I found a lawyer. I don't actually know any lawyers. I started to panic. I was assured the court would appoint me a lawyer, but I kept trying to tell them

to ask the guy with the dead chicken in the trailer. Ma'am, those aren't trailers. What did that even mean? I felt so lost. I didn't have anybody I could call. My bungee yoga courses didn't help with this situation. I wondered what Judy would do in my place, if things had been different.

Sometime later, Mulberry was back with a brief statement. They found your log, He said, and there's blood on it. For him, that meant I bludgeoned Mr. Swain. For me, the implications were much more terrifying. Something really had been just a few feet behind me. Before he could say more, another officer appeared and whispered something in Mulberry's ear. A man in a suit entered.

I noticed he had elegant black gloves. He whispered to the officers, and they stood on each side of the front door. The man in the suit gestured to someone outside the bed. police station. Two men, also in black suits with black gloves, entered carrying a sort of altar with a tabernacle in the center. The tabernacle was actually a fancy stand on which a cell phone, a Galaxy S-10, had been propped. The men in suits disappeared deeper into the station with their altar and paid me no attention. I was relieved at that. Something about that cell phone unnerved me. I guess after the night I had, anything but pure, utter normalcy would be unnerved.

I just wanted to go home and watch friends on Netflix until I passed out and dreamed of Ross. Officer Mulberry approached me a lot more tenderly than he had before. He looked apologetic, maybe even worried. Was my appointed lawyer that good, I wondered? He said I was needed. I followed him to the back of the station, where I was led into an interrogation room. I expected to see that lawyer waiting. Instead, the cell phone, and it's gold-plated stand had been placed on the interrogation room table. To the left of the phone, a tub of water. The men who had carried the phone were nowhere to be seen.

She's here, Mr. Rook. Mulberry left swiftly, closing the door behind him. I didn't know what to do. I've been given no instructions, so I stood by the door waiting, wondering if that tub was for waterboarding. Then the phone spoke. Please. Mr. Rook's voice was distinctly feminine.

breathy, like a phone sex operator. I sat uncomfortably across from the phone. I didn't like that he could see me, but I was stuck staring at a rectangle. Are you aware that you have creatures in your body? What creatures? I became aware now of what sounded like typewriters when Rook spoke, like a newsroom in an old movie.

Do you see the solution to my right? Place your left hand in. the solution to my right. When your left hand is in the solution to my right, you will see the creatures react and exit your body. This is ridiculous. What's even in that tub? Solution.

Of? Two parts, water, and one part, ubiquit. Place your left hand in the solution. I'm doing it. I didn't and still don't know what Eubik-thic is, but I placed my left hand in the tub to the left of the phone. Tentatively. I was afraid it would burn or do something.

It just felt like water. Didn't smell like anything. Why were you in the desert at midnight? To speak to Mr. Swain. But why were you in the desert at midnight? I told you, and I told the officers everything already. Why? Why what?

Were you in the desert at midnight? I don't know. You weren't supposed to be in the desert at midnight. Something's changed. Okay. Who is Paul Ferran? I have no clue. Paul Ferran's body was eclipsed.

I don't know what that means. You might be in Paul Farron. If you are in Paul Farron, we all are. What? What if he gets up? What happens then? I'm scared, Julie. The change in tone startled me.

I didn't know who this was or what this person was talking about or why the police would be going along with this. Julie, I'm scared, Julie. You're scaring me. Look at your hand. I'd forgotten it was in the solution. The water had turned slightly inky, but I could see some small object.

It looked like a little. computer chip. You are free to go. You will be investigated no further. You will be contacted no further. Forget what you heard tonight. Forget swain and desert and pictures and rook. Then you are free.

Mr. Rook's bearers were suddenly in the room. I didn't even notice the door open. They gripped the handles on each side of the altar, like the Ark of the Covenant, with white-gloved hands and quickly escorted it away. Nobody came to get me, however. I sat in confusion for some time waiting to be told I could go. When I got up and timidly left the room,

I noticed I was all alone in the police station, completely alone. The lights were on, cups of coffee left out, but no people. I left a note, just in case Mr. Rook lied, and went home. Let me paint you a tableau. Midday, but just enough cloud cover, a breeze blowing petals from wildflowers that grow through the asphalt

down a neglected street in the oldest part of the city. The buildings are narrow and contain traditional businesses, barbershops and clock repairs. The narrowest of the buildings, inset, so you'd think it was just an alcove for trash cans, distinguishes itself with a bold red door. Sterling silver hardware, including the mail slot.

Despite the businesses, the street is quiet. The immobile vehicles along the road seem ornamental. At the very end of the street, like another world, cars, women in business skirts, old men walking dogs, the flow of modern life. But this street is at peace. Nobody knows it's here unless they have a reason to be here. I have a reason. I opened the red door, as I was instructed. The light inside is retiring

and complements the robust woodgrain of the walls. I'd never been on this street before, nor in this building before. I feel strange. An interlober. I feel like a pagan setting foot in a cathedral looking for the gift shop. I walk past a ceremony in progress in an atrium. The purpose is unclear.

A man walks by me with a nod. I haven't been apprehended yet. I reach room 106. A door of solid wood. I still don't know my woods. Let's say it's oak. It's a jar, so I push against sluggish hinges. Inside is another atrium, with three women and two men seated in a circle.

They are effortlessly described by the natural light entering through ceiling windows. A blonde woman acknowledged me with the bat of her lashes, but she didn't dare interrupt the woman speaking. My child had died. Poor little Seth. He was, everyone who met him said it, that little boy who is so full of heart. I'd had dreams of what he'd be, the kind of man he'd become. He'd make the world a better place in his own quiet way.

I couldn't let go of his shoes, the ones he kept clean because he liked to show them off on weekends. Why his shoes, I don't know. They just felt so his. I always kept them near me since. My husband began to draw away. Our grief took separate paths. He'd see me crying and he'd leave the room. Then one day, we let it all out,

like two trains reaching the same point at once. He was my son too. Then why don't you care? Why have I never once seen a tear come from your eyes? and dragging his shoes around is going to bring him back all the world's a stage, and you can't even tell you're faking anymore. Faking! He was the purest, best thing in my whole life, and he's gone.

We died with him. Fifteen years of marriage, and for the first time, I noticed something moving behind his eyes. I don't mean metaphorically. I mean something was inside his head, a foreign substance. Maybe I saw it before and looked away, or thought it was the light or fluid. Now I looked and saw it. Deep inside, leagues deep, a figure, some twitching in human shape far away. It saw me looking.

It was coming closer. That was when I knew my husband killed our son. There was no man. There were no shoes. I don't have much longer. I'll see you soon, Seth. And I'll never leave you alone again. Never again.

A somber silence followed this emotional performance. I didn't know what it was, but I felt a profound sadness for the woman. Are you lost? Near-death experiences are 108. I guess that depends. What's 106? Nobody volunteered this information. They looked to each other,

and back to me mistrustfully. Someone sent me here. Who? Why? Who and why? After the events of that night with Swain and Rook and the desert, I needed change and healing. That sounds flaky.

It sounds a lot better when Gianna says it. I'll get to her. What I needed was to find something to give my life meaning, not kickboxing and extreme mixology, but something real. The first step I knew I had to take was leaving my job and confronting that bitch Blanford. I imagined how it'd go down in my head. I'd storm into her office with some dramatic statement like A2, Blanchford,

and let her know what a slimy game she played. She'd stare at me with her blank fish eyes and pull out the resignation form instantly because the wheels move fast. Not satisfying, but what I expected. What actually happened is I stormed into her office and found it empty. There was a particulate,

in the air, like traces of smoke or heavy dust. The smell was musty, like the office had been empty for decades. The paper with the wheel she'd drawn was still sitting on her desk with a Sharpie on top. She'd done nothing in the four days since I'd last been in that office. I was so puzzled, I didn't even notice Bev behind me. She just stopped coming in. I think she's dead. Dead?

Why do you think that? Just a feeling I got Girl, I've been having strange thoughts and feelings lately. I found myself wanting to open up, to share some of what happened. But it's not like Bev and I were close. We sat across from each other, talked a little, and that was it. Instead, I could only manage a polite affirmation.

That seems to be what she was waiting for. Yeah, me too. These are strange times. A violent death, too. Something really bad happened to her. I think. Well, I hope not. Oh, I'm telling you,

I have these strange thoughts and feelings. I was never one to overthink much, but now it's like I have to pace around and think about these strange thoughts and feelings. She was fucking pulled apart, like confetti, I think. Her spine and head lasts so she could feel it

until there was nothing left but dust. Plans for dust. I don't know, it's just a strange thought and feeling. Beth was the sort of lady whose work lunch consisted of those little packets of crackers where you smear the cheese similar product with a tiny red stick. Not the sort of lady to imagine violent murders. I'm sorry. I warned you. I've been seeing someone for it.

She knows how to help cope with strange things. She handed me Gianna's card. I didn't intend to call her. I took the card to be polite. The more I thought about it, the importance of getting a handle on what happened, and not seeing a knife slide into Mr. Swain's eye, I decided to give her a try. Gianna did help. She seemed to believe everything I said. Her only concern was how it affected me. She urged me to get back to being myself,

get into slam poetry, and disc golf, go write stories in public places with a laptop, work for a non-profit for now, and fill my days with all the whims I'd ever had. Forget and be free. It felt good to have that permission. I'd started to feel like a dilettante or a hipster. I couldn't shake it, though. However busy I got, I kept having questions. It got worse when Judy's mother called me out of the blue and told me I should visit.

Gianna strictly forbade it. She ran her perfect fingernails through her long, black hair and side. I'd never seen her frustrated before. I was afraid I'd disappointed her. That's when she recommended the group. She referred to it as a safe place to explore these thoughts. So there I was. A year ago, I experienced some strange events,

and it's made me question, well, everything. Like, am I even really here talking to you? I know that sounds... Then you're not lost. We've all experienced swerve. Swerve? Swerve. Swerve.

It comes from... Lucretius, a Roman philosopher, it's how he tried to explain free will in a completely determined universe. Everything may be bouncing atoms according to the laws of physics, but sometimes one swerves. Nobody knows when or why. It just does, and no law can explain it. But our founder sees it a little different. Swerve is like a glitch. Something or someone disappears. Someone normal behaves in ways we can't explain. Whole crowds see things that it shouldn't be, and other things. I see it more as a window.

A window opens into one of the other worlds, and you see what you shouldn't. And suddenly, you're reacting to something that was never in the casual chain. A new order of events is born. And two competing orders is chaos. First, I'm so sorry for your loss. Oh, that wasn't me. That was from the window. Some other woman.

She's like me and I was in her for a moment. That was my last swerve. So you guys just talk about this stuff? That's it. Who else can you talk about it with? If they don't feel swerve, they'll never get it. At worst, they think you're crazy. At best, they can just nod along.

Introductions. I'm Ruby. I moderate the group. This lady whose story you heard is Dot. And Stella. The quiet guy is Stuart. but we call him disco stew. And Jake.

I'm Judy. I said it without even thinking about it. I didn't want to give them my real name, and I didn't know why. With some prodding, I went on to tell them my experience. Judy's disappearance, Julie's disappearance in this version, the calls to her mother, Mr. Swain's behavior and the discussion with Mr. Rook. They were right. Being able to talk about it with someone who understood, helped.

Even if I was concerned this great. group was a circle jerk. Oh, you've had some big time swerve. That housekeeper? One of them. Yep. One of who? Sometimes when there's too much swerve, it's like some things get through that shouldn't. Like, if we can swerve out, they can swerve in.

But there are things in what you said that's new to us. It's so focused on you. It's as if you fed it something personal about you and it can't let go or something. just theorizing, but what if your friend Julie's caught in the swerve and is trying to reach out to you? She must be in so much pain. Stop! Yes, seriously. Besides, it doesn't work like that. How do you know? This is Terra Incognita, baby. It's true, though. We experience, see, feel, but it's never really about us.

The friend disappearing is a coincidence. The swerve didn't reach Earth until 2007. Oh, it's always been there. How do you explain it? Ambrose Pierce, Roanoke. Jake's face turned red, and I could see a rant coming, but Ruby raised her hand, silencing the discussion. I think we need the founder to look into this.

Judy, our founder is the one who put together the philosophy for all of this. He sees clearer than us. He'll know what's special about your case. I'm sure of it. He'll be able to give you some answers. They urged me to return next week, promising the founder would be present.

I gave them my word I'd be there. That night, as I struggled to sleep, I remembered a charmed moment I had with Judy, one I hadn't thought of in years. On the beach, the same old beach we'd go to that was more rocks than sand, we had our towels unrolled and positioned ourselves, me prone and Judy Supine,

to caramelize our hides. I'd been chattering about whatever gossip interested me for a while, without any response. It occurred to me at last that she might not be listening. She was in her own world. She had to do that sometimes. She had a life of ideas and reflections beyond me. She rarely let any of it out.

She did that day. It's going to sound stupid. So? Thanks. I mean it. Who cares? Just tell me. If we can't sound stupid to each other, what's the point?

Okay. I was imagining. we rode on a beam of light far out into outer space. As far away as you can go, the farther you go, the older things are. When you get to the end, that's the beginning. We're floating out there and we can breathe just fine. We breathe light, we feel the sunlight on our faces. It's just like here, except we'll never grow old out there.

Everything will be just like it is now. We'll always be together, just me and you. I don't know. Don't you want to grow up, get a job, wear sexy outfits, but nobody can say anything because you're the boss and you're tough as nails? Besides, there's no sunlight in space. Oh, yes, there is. It's all sunlight out there. Then why is it so dark at night? It only looks dark because we're down here. When you get out there, the oldest suns are bigger than millions of our sun, and they make so much light.

We'd have to wear a lot of sunscreen. Who told you all that? No one. Who? Do you want to go, Julie? Get real. Okay, but can we get back? Like, say if we want a chocolate sundae.

We can ride the sunlight wherever we want to go. But once we're out there, we'd never want to come back. I can't believe it's taken me so many years to understand what she meant. What I wouldn't give for things to be just like they were then. To stay that way. Just the two of us on our ratty towels, sunlight on our faces. In the following days, I received a message with more specific instructions on how to meet the founder. They offered no explanation for the change of venue.

I was given a location in a wealthy part of town and forbidden to bring any electronics or metallic object. In order to reduce resonance, they said. I was also asked to destroy the message, an actual letter, after memorizing the instructions. An elderly man let me in the front door. he wordlessly escorted me to a vast sitting room that had been wall-to-wall draped in black and purple fabrics, with the one exception of the fireplace, where a healthy and unnecessary fire crackled.

Egyptian motif, furniture, and statuary seemed out of place, like a hastily ordered fortune-tellers tent. Most of the group seated around a sarcophagus-like coffee table, waited for me. Ruby, I noticed, was absent. In her place were others. a man in an all-white suit who studied me with interest, another man in a shimmering silver track suit and orange turban, and in a morticia Adams evening gown, my therapist, Gianna.

What's going on? This is like the world's weirdest intervention. It's a super special night. This man. She was gesturing to the man in the track suit with bare admiration. This man was able to put little Seth in my arms. For real. Tonight. Everyone saw me hold him.

Saw him alive. But he had to go back. He... Everything has its place. We're going beyond that. The man in the white suit had command of the room. When he spoke, Dot relaxed back into position. The founder, I gathered.

Looks like we're all here. Ruby's not coming. She's dead. What? She'll be all right. What does that mean? The man in an all-white suit stood up and opened his arms as though waiting for a hug. Let's begin.

I'm Zach's Reinhold, and I'm glad to welcome you into our fold, Judy. Or is it Julie? Please, sit. I've been brought up to speed on your situation, and it is marvelous. Marvelous! I started this group for the special ones. That's right. The special ones who have begun to sense that things are not as they see.

This whole world is filled with hidden truths and lies. So you believe my story? I do. Without question. Hook, line, sinker, and the whole tackle box, Julie. I saw the others nodding appreciatively. Zach's figured it all out. Thank you, Dot. But that's not exactly true.

I need help from time to time. That's why I have a special setup this evening. We're going to speak. Really? Too Fotor. Gasp's erupted around the room, followed by muttering. He aided up before shushing them. He gestured theatrically to his right. This man to my right is Renato. I don't expect that name will mean much to most of you. He does not seek fame or publicity. He just does. Renalto is a medium of extraordinary power. He is a special one. Paras. Excellance. Renalto, anything that need be said? I'm not really here. His voice was low, silky. He had no trace of an Italian accent, just a sing-songy cadence that made me uncomfortable. Nor am I, as you see. I am a series of tubes, and I can concentrate the fields

of being into a point and pull them over. I only then noticed that Renato was on Zax's left, not his right, although I was sure Zax was correct when he first spoke. Renato eyed me smugly.

Renalto will reach out to Fotor so that he might manifest himself and give us insight. We will be in the presence of Fotor. I'm afraid. Do not be afraid. I'm afraid. I just said, do not be afraid.

Okay. I'm sorry, who's Fotor? Fotor is he who is beyond this realm and sends forth the swerve that we might be free. He appears in this world as an immensely powerful cosmic force, what scientists and their ilk call a quasar, a word with no meaning and no hope of describing. For beyond the senses, he is freedom itself.

cell. It is by the grace of Fotor that some of us can see. With a capital S, we can see into the beyond the other aspects of being, the aspects that cannot be summed up with mathematics or broken down into chemicals. He spoke to me in my wild youth and made me his apostle. You must all stop speaking now. I'm afraid. I noticed a wet spot spreading over her slacks. I was getting up to help her when both she and Zaks waved me down. Oh, oh God, it's beginning. His fingers cramped into arthritic hooks. His face contorted into a grimace so tight,

the tendons in his neck looked ready to snap. He arched his back suddenly and screamed a hollow, metallic scream, like shrieking inside an oil drum. Then he produced sound that can best be described as a chainsaw using just his mouth. He followed this with the sound of an old camera rewinding at the end of the film. Then he relaxed into a sort of trance. A cloud took form in the center of the room.

I looked around for a projector or fog machine. The cloud continued to grow, taking the definite shape of a humanoid. Then very clearly a man. The most angelic man. He was strong, innocent, and beautiful. He looked around at all of us with a benevolent smile. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Fotor.

I glanced over and saw tears welling in Zax's eyes. It looked at Zax with pity and love. Fotor, we ask your guidance. This woman, Julie, who experiences, what do they mean? What is required of us? Fotor looked at me then. His eyes gentle fires along the beach on a mild night. His smile like the proudest father.

He came toward me in slow, childlike steps. I noticed he had no genitalia. He was pure. His look, his presence made me feel safe and loved. He was close now. He reached out his hand. I saw he was reaching from my face. I tilted slightly.

ready to rest in his palm. Then the door kicked open. A short, fat man in a Hawaiian shirt stormed into the room, his cheap sandals slapping the whole way. Fotor looked at this man with the same benevolence he did everyone. The man walked up to Fotor, placed his thick, hairy ape hands on Fotor's neck, and twisted, hard, until there was an audible snap. Fotor fell dead at his feet.

Everyone in the room burst into screams and wails. Sails, terror, panic, and outright grief overwhelmed us. I found myself shrieking. Why? With one of his sandaled feet, the invading troll kicked the body of Fotaur over so we could see his face. All the benevolence was gone. All the kindness and gentleness vanished like an illusion. The eyes were gleaming with malice, the mouth, a lecherous smile. I was reminded of Mr. Swain before I confronted him, but so much worse.

The once gentle hand covered in hideous, sucking sores. That's enough of that! Renato ran from the room, weeping. I doubt he had any ill intent. He seemed confused. Zax, too. I saw his jaw trembling. He looked deathly afraid of the thing on the floor.

This is what happens when children play with things they don't understand. Only Gianna seemed to recognize the man. She shot up from her chair as though spring-loaded and hissed at him. You had no right. Come on, Julie. Let's leave these losers. I listened to the pathetic wailing and whimpering from Zax's group, even after they'd seen the truth. I locked eyes with Gianna, and she ordered me to stay. I trusted my gut.

I left with the gravely voiced man, left the shrieking harpy that was once my therapist behind. That thing would have killed you, and then some. I'm not sure what that means. Well, that's something to be thankful for. He walked me to my car, even opening the door for me. I was sure I'd locked it. Who are you? I'm Paul Ferran.

I've heard your name before. No doubt. Go get some rest. Or don't, live your own damn life. And if you need me, I'm in the phone book. He closed the door gently once I was in the car and continued laughing to himself as he walked away. I had no doubt whatsoever. that the strange man had just saved my life.

He was probably being flippant, I told myself. But something in what he said registered with me. Live your own damn life. Since this started, I hadn't been. I'd been listening to someone else all along, first Mr. Swain, then Blanchford, then the housekeeper, Rook Gianna, those weirdos in the group,

someone's been telling me what to do all along. I would love to figure out what happened to Judy for real. I'd love to know why Mr. Swain had those photos. I still miss her. But she's gone, and I'm here. I need to live. I decided to get some closure and do something Gianna, and I suppose Mr. Rook, forbade me to do. I was going to visit Judy's mother.

She invited me. I'd take her up on it. Judy's mother's house was much as I remembered, which was strange because it wasn't the same house. She didn't even live in the same city. Long-buried feelings by that dark magic of nostalgia were resurrected, and I felt like that little girl in 2000, running up the stairs to show Judy the new Britney Spears album, doing each other's hair, and those exhausting sleepovers.

The sounds of daytime television were audible through the door. I knocked and waited. The television was eventually muted, but nobody came to the door. On my second knock, I got a response. Come on in already! The inside of the home was also exactly as I remembered it. The strawberry wallpaper, green carpeting, vintage Coca-Cola ads on the walls. It's like I'd just stepped through a time machine.

Penny? Who's that? Not buying. It's Julie. You asked me to come visit sometime. Here I am. She didn't say anything. Just turn back to the television. She'd gained about 50 pounds, but otherwise aged well.

Her hair was the same dark orange. it had always been. I'm sorry we lost touch. I don't even know why. I've been thinking about her a lot lately. I wasn't going to tell her why, of course. She was watching the Steve Wilco's show. He was squeezing a tearful confession from an accused child abuser for ratings and moral superiority.

We caught up. How so? We caught up. Judy told me about this 15 years ago. This broad ear was covering for her boyfriend. He hit those kids. Steve's going to bring him out in a minute, and boy, is he going to get shamed. Is this a repeat?

Nope. I remembered the episode descriptions the fake Judy would give, TV shows and episodes that didn't exist. I guess it's possible after years of daytime drivel, an episode matched. Is this what you wanted to show me? I didn't want to show you anything. Oh. Why did you ask me to visit? I didn't.

But since you're here, you might as well have some cookies and coffee. She was in the middle of standing up when she froze and turned up the volume. It was a commercial for what was apparently a local sod and soil business, Backdoor Charlie's House of Dirt. Still images of dirt piles, varying slightly in their shades of dark brown, were accompanied by a superimposed dancing man, Backdoor Charlie, while he explicated his dirt cheap, get it, soil. Then the jingle.

When it comes to dirt, you better know. To backdoor Charlie's do do doodoo at 16. She turned off the TV once the jingle ended with a few. She brushed past me like I was a cat in the way. I'd forgotten just how much the loss of Judy affected her stability. Time and loneliness hadn't improved her condition, I thought. I left her room just like it used to be. Go see it while I get the cookies.

I did as she asked because I really wanted to see it. I was astounded. The room was exactly as I remembered it. Exactly. The curtains mostly drawn so it was always dim inside. The posters, Backstreet Boys, and Tom Welling hung at the same crooked angles with pink push-tacks. Even the smell was the same. An indescribable combination of youth, copper-tone, and linseed oil.

It's almost like she's still here. Penny was puttering around in the kitchen, but I felt more than heard her answer. She is. The coffee was Maxwell House, freeze-dried crystals, and the cookies were store-bought marshmallow cookies called Sponch. I know that's a strange thing to mention, but it made me feel bad. It emphasized her loneliness. I hadn't been a good friend to Judy.

Do you know a man named Swain? Jonathan Swain? No, should I? I wouldn't recommend it. Oh. Good. Have you had any news on the investigation? I want to tell you, but he'll hear you.

Who? The devil. Don't look at me like that. I don't mean pitchfork and tail. I can show him to you. I think you should. She grabbed me by the arm, more for her own sake. I could see she was terrified as she ushered me to the pantry door.

She opened it slowly. She pointed to a drawer. Inside was just porcelain dinnerware. I could feel her trembling beside me. She pointed to an unremarkable red bowl. There were three others just like it in the drawer. That bowl is the devil. I bought that set the same month Judy was taken from us.

I didn't know. How could I have known? For a long time, I couldn't explain why I didn't want to use that one bowl. There are three others just like it. But you can see that. That one bull took a while to see, it's evil. On one level, I was deeply concerned for her mental well-being. On the other, I felt disturbed and repulsed by the bull.

Looking at it, I felt blood rushing to my head and could hear, in my head, screams, hundreds of screams. I had no explanation for it. The bull felt evil. I wanted out of that pantry. Penny didn't argue. We left the pantry together in a hurry. That's why I have to hide. Come on. I followed her to her backyard where she had a pile of dirt under a small carport.

She looked fondly at the dirt. See, I told you Judy's still with us. She's alive. But I have to hide her back here so the devil can't take her again. Penny. I better explain. I took the notion. to have a garden about a year ago. I went to Backdoor Charlie's and got his deluxe blend.

That shit'll grow anything, he says. He's a nice man. Everybody in town knows Backdoor Charlie. It's a small town. Well, word goes round that something's wrong with Charlie. He stopped going to church. He stopped getting in shipments. Strange vehicles coming and going.

Old Herbert Mildegard's wife said she hears him shouting all hours of the night. But it's none of her business. Just can't make heads nor tales of it. One day I get a call from Backdoor Charlie, telling me he has a better blend for me. The best blend, just for me. Well, Backdoor Charlie, I say, I gave up that garden after I tried Checks Mix for the first time. I didn't get up off the couch for days. What a trip.

He says I better come right away. It's important. He says, I know we don't know each other that well, but you got to trust me. She stopped her story to eat three cookies in rapid succession, followed by a gulp of coffee. She must have had them stored in her pockets, even the coffee, because her hands had been empty. I was happy for the break anyway. While I tried to focus on her story, you know that feeling when you're trying to enjoy a picnic when there's a wasp nearby? I kept thinking of that bowl, like it was hovering around me, waiting.

I don't trust him, on account of the stories. I go anyway, seeing as how I should give that garden another chance, and I got tired in checks mix anyway. He takes me back behind his shop where I see the darkest dirt I have ever seen in my life. And in the sunlight I see glints of sparkle. It's like looking into the darkest night sky and there are stars. I think to myself, my God, it's full of stars. Backdoor Charlie says, this here is a special dirt and he was told to give it to me. No charge.

He said, this is all there is. It can never be mixed again. Dardier killed him the first time. No soil ever been mixed like this soil. And I can believe it. I say, well, backdoor Charlie, it's beautiful. And he says, just like your little girl. Then he leaves me alone with it.

She heaved a weighty sigh then, looking admiringly at the dirt. Her story had apparently come to an end. I don't understand, Penny. Did a backtor Charlie have something to do with Judy's disappearance? Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. He found her. That freshly punched feeling exploded in my guts at the thought that Judy's remains had been recovered. I imagined the skull, with a broken pair of bright plastic sunglasses beside it, deep in the dark soil.

I imagined that lunatic ground her up for, compost. She's buried in there? You don't recognize her? This is Judy. She's the dirt. All throughout it. All the sparkles, the light of her eyes. Getting close and you can hear her. She says things just like she used to. Says things like, good night, mom. And what's for lunch? And she tells me about her favorite shows. Go on. Listen. Not to humor her, but to look for bone fragments, I drew closer to the heap of soil. It was an unremarkable, dark soil. The glittering was silica crystals, sand, in other words, standard in soil mixing. I looked it up. Then, my joints locked up, and I felt a horrible nausea weak in me. I knelt beside the dirt and heard a voice, snippets of phrases with no real sense.

But the voice was that fake Judy voice I remember from years ago. Well, here we go again. So are you real? Why can't I see you? Let's not start a revolt. He brings out clowns for people who are afraid of clowns. He helps them. You hit me with a log. I stood up quickly and vomited near the dirt pile.

I expected Penny to yell at me, but she didn't seem to care. That's not Judy. Of course it is. No, Penny, that's a pile of planting soil in your yard. Judy's gone. She's been gone for years. I'm sorry. This is dirt from a nearby hayseed.

And if it really talks, it's just like that goddamn bowl in your pantry. I was feeling sicker by the moment, and her patients somehow drained me of all of mine. I should have been more compassionate. Listen here, Missy. I don't know who you think you are. But I remember the day I brought my Judy home from the hospital.

It was a special day. It was December. But it was so warm. It was like a summer day. Like she brought new sun into the world. And I held her in my arms every day and nursed her. And I felt like she was giving me life and not the other way around. Boy, she could scream and cry.

When she got her first words, she just liked to talk. Caca, Mama, she'd say. I know, my little girl. Don't tell me I don't know my little girl. Don't you tell me I don't know my little girl! While she was saying all this, she knelt into the dirt and picked up a clump of the soil. She held it to her chest as though she were nursing it.

When she'd finished, she screamed, awful throat-ripping screams. I tried to help her up, but she threw cookies at me. A neighbor came running over. I tried to explain. It was difficult over the screaming. The neighbor told me to just go and he'd take care of Penny. So I left. I was probably five or six blocks away when I realized something.

I'd seen that neighbor before. He was one of the men who brought Mr. Rook into the police department, or he looked just like him. I tried to tell myself Penny's madness had just infected me a little. I thought I'd heard words from a pile of dirt, after all. But it wasn't working. I knew I'd regret it if I didn't turn back. When I got back to Pennies, the screaming had stopped.

I checked the backyard first. No sign of Penny or the neighbor. The pile of dirt was also gone. Not a trace of it left. I'd only been gone for a few minutes. I gingerly let myself into the house through the back door. I called to Penny. I heard nothing back except Backdoor Charlie's jingle from the living room.

I guessed the neighbor took Penny somewhere to get help. But why take away the dirt? And how'd they do it so quick? I glanced in Judy's bedroom. It took a moment to understand what I was seeing. Penny was on Judy's bed. She... Her abdomen had been carved out.

I won't describe it further. It imprinted on my mind forever. What I remember most, the cookies, crushed, tossed over her body. Steam was rising from... I had nothing left to vomit, so I dry heaved and staggered out of the bedroom. I tried to catch my breath but couldn't, because there, on the kitchen table, was the bowl. I stared at it, again like a wasp hovering around its nest. You don't want it to notice you because it'll attack.

So you stand there, staring at it, staring, staring, staring, and then you're gone. Gone as in I don't remember how I made it back to my home. I was relieved to be home. I felt muscle aches all over as if I'd just run a marathon. I could taste blood. The TV was on.

I watched it mindlessly. Rachel Maddow. I found comfort in the sounds, the level, rational speech, paper shuffling. I even watched through the mesothelioma ad. What I did remember, was Paul Farron, the little ogre who seemed to understand what was going on. I couldn't find a phone book because it's not 1980, nor could I find him online.

There were other Paul Farrens, but not that one. I thought about it. Was it a challenge? Did I actually need to get a phone book? Is that why he laughed about it? I went to the nearest public library to ask for a physical phone book any year. They actually had some. But then I didn't even know what city Paul Farron.

lived in, did I? As I looked around at all the books, it struck me, where I'd first seen the name Paul Farron, the book on Blanchford's desk. The only thing on her desk when I first walked in. Telephony, by Paul Farron. It had been a year since Blanchford worked there. What were the odds her book was still there? I checked the library catalog first, of course, and they didn't carry it. I checked online. The internet didn't carry it. That book didn't exist outside of Blanchford's office. I had to go back there. Changes had taken place in the years since I'd last been there. The building itself, which hosted the offices of several businesses, seemed darker. I remembered it being bright, but it was all blacks and dark purples now. There was also a new shop

on the ground floor that appeared to be nothing but glass menageries. People moped inside, looking at the glass. I exited the elevator on my old floor with a shock. The white fluorescence had been replaced by an alienating pharmaceutical yellow. Although ordinarily there would be few employees left at this hour, it was operating at half staff that night. A well-dressed Asian woman walked by me and said,

Hey, Judy! I didn't recognize her at all. Others who passed me smiled, nodded like I belonged. Got them reports? A guy passing asked. Ready for that deadline? A redhead I didn't know, said. She tried to get my advice on some printouts she had,

but I explained I was in a rush. She promised to bring me a copy when I got to my desk. Judy, what are you doing here? I ignored the fact she got my name wrong. I was too overwhelmed. It's hard to explain. Don't explain it. Just get in here.

You're five minutes late. Bev, I don't work here anymore. Not with that attitude. I walked with her to the supply closet, which was now in office. I noticed typewriters on all the desks instead of computers. There was also tinsel left around, as though they'd just had an office Christmas party. But it was August. Hey, thanks for keeping an eye out, Judy.

I spun around to see Mr. Swain walking by. He was wearing sunglasses so I couldn't see his eyes, or sockets. Mr. Swain? He made a clicking sound with his mouth. before disappearing into what used to be the print room. Bev grabbed my arm and pulled me into the office. Inside the office, Blanchford, Mr. Swain's thumbless housekeeper, Gianna and Dot sat around an elegant oval coffee table. A bed decked in brocade comforters and canopy shimmered behind them. Bev walked past them and reclined on the bed with a moan.

I turned to leave, but one of Mr. Rook's men was blocking the exit. Lanchford stood up and flipped on a projector, a close-up of an old-fashioned computer, I think. Punch cards was the only shot. I heard a familiar sound. What are you going to do to me? Rendering. You'll be melted down and given new purpose as an adhesive.

I don't believe that. Believe it. I've been looking forward to it. The first time I saw you, I thought that Judy, looks like a bitch to melt. I've been thinking about it ever since. In my head and just between us squirrel friends, I call you my little candle. I've been wondering how you'd bubble, how smooth you'd flow, how you'd scream. I want to melt you so bad, Judy. Try to be open-minded. Let me start with the foot and see how it feels.

I want to scouround in liquid, Judy, until there's none left. Let you flow down the tub. The others nodded along while she spoke. They didn't seem the least bit disturbed or repulsed by the maniacal descriptions. Because they meant it. They intended to melt me, to kill me. I'm a melcher. I'm a melcher. I'm a melcher. I need rest. Look.

She exposed her abdomen to show a baseball-sized hole in her side. I could see intestines. Don't just look at it. Eat it. That broke everyone into laughter. I took my opportunity. I launched one hell of a spinning back kick to Mr. Rook's man. My heel contacted squarely with his solar plexus. He went down, and I went over him. I heard shrieking, most of it incoherent, except for Blanchard.

We'll find you! Melt you! Nobody else in the office paid any attention. I saw the lady with the printout waving it in the air over a desk I assumed was mine. Sorry, lady, I'm out of here. I wandered the streets aimlessly. I was too scared to go home, and I had nowhere else to go. How had things gone so wrong? What was happening in the world?

And there was no hope of getting that book now. When I felt confident nobody was following me, I sat on a bench to take a breather. The adrenaline had left my system and I just wanted sleep. The streets were remarkably quiet for her. I checked my cell phone to see it was 9.50 p.m. In fact, there were almost no cars and no pedestrians. The buildings were all lit up, cold, bluish lights. I could see shapes moving inside some of them.

I was surprised to find a phone booth beside the bench. In fact, I'd seen a few phone booths while wandering, like they were making a comeback. They were all lit a pale, seafone green. On a whim, I entered this one to see if it had a phone book. It did. I flipped unsteadily through the grimy pages. I didn't have much hope. But there he was, as promised.

I found myself laughing about it, too. It was too absurd, too easy, all too easy. I tried to dial the number on my cell, but it wouldn't work. I had no service. I did have a quarter, however. I called the number for Paul Farron. I let it ring ten times before I heard a click. This was followed by a blistering series of pulses and tones.

It was Paul's whiskey-soaked voice. He sounded relayed over countless lines on connections threatening to release at any moment. I'm sorry. I didn't know who else... Julie! Listen, not much... The line dropped, and I was all out of it. quarters. I was going to try calling collect, if that's still a thing, when I felt myself yanked out of the phone booth. I was thrown to the ground. Luckily, my hand cushioned my head, but my

knuckles tore hard on the concrete. It was the man I'd kicked down. Officer Mulberry was with him, and a woman holding Mulberry's arm. His wife? Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch. Say the C word. Yeah. Hold her. Blanchford was wrong. Running down the street completely naked, her middle-aged flesh flapping. The man did as she asked. I felt something hard pressing into my hip. I knew what it was. He was enjoying this.

The firm flesh is going to slide off like butter. I shall be baptized in the waters of bitch Judy. Start with this firm. Already have the pot ready. It's a lot. Large crock pot. Sleek, painted a nice lacquer finish white. The wheels turn fast.

Vroom, rum, brum. You can't get away with this. I don't know why I said that. They say it in movies, but a cop was standing right there doing nothing. We just tested it on Bev. Cream of Bev Soup. Ugh.

She's probably still. crying for the hurting to stop. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch. It stuck. They were dragging me back through the streets I'd just fled down. One of my shoes fell off. The man in the suit kept going. Bitch fondue.

Bitch broth. Bitchy swas. That's a good one. More men arrived as backup in case I landed another kick. I'd been planning to get a good one right at the knee. Now it wouldn't matter. I thought about where Judy might be. Maybe she was dead.

Maybe there was an afterlife. In some ways, I'd seen and heard so many strange things over the past year. It was as reasonable as anything else. Maybe I'd see her soon and tell her. Tell her... Tell her what? Tell her... I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, I just went back to reading a magazine when I saw something strange happening. Sorry, I just ignored my surroundings until it was too late. Sorry I gave up searching for her. If I'd gone over with her when I first saw her, she'd still be with me. We'd have stayed out there, getting sunburned we regretted later. We were getting close to my old office building. The man in the suit was finally out of bitch-related fluids to reference and was content to just chuckle to himself.

As we passed by a phone booth, it began to ring. Blanchford growled at it. The same with the next one, and the next. I was doing it again. I was ignoring my surroundings, and it was about to be too late. I'd become complacent, accepting that things were making no sense. But this was the limit. Phone booths, typewriters, Mr. Swain rehired, Mulberry, none of this made sense.

Let go. That was what he told me. Let go. Let go of what? The guilt. I'd been blaming myself for Judy all my life without acknowledging it. Or let them melt me? Just let go.

We were approaching the doors of the building. I could see the glass menagerie shop. I imagined it all shattering. What a shame that would be. Shattering! I remembered. I even said it out loud. I never made it home.

What's that? Bitch? This tension I'd been feeling the last several hours, the muscle aches, a strain in my body. It was real. I saw a penny's body. I stumbled to the kitchen to vomit. I grabbed the bowl.

on instinct. I was still holding the bowl. Let go. I didn't know how exactly, but I tried. I put all my willpower into just completely relaxing. Let them carry me. Let the tension drop. Let go. I didn't care. I didn't care about the litany of bitch being barked into my ear or any of it. Fuck them all. Then I heard a window breaking in the distance. No. It was a cheap ceramic bowl, shattering. on a tile floor. It had fallen from my hands. I was still in pennies. My legs were stiff, and I felt severely dehydrated. The skin on my fingers felt slippery, like they were being melted. I looked at the broken pieces of the devil. They were still wobbling. I refused to spend another second in that place. I limped to my car. I knew where I was going. The phone book in that

nightmare, it was real. I had Paul Farron's address. You made it. I knew they'd try something. I didn't think they'd go for the bowl, though. That's desperation. You were almost Campbell's soup. Paul was waiting for me on his front porch when I arrived. I'd been driving for hours, struggling to keep what I'd seen out of my mind, feeling responsible. It occurred to me that people seemed to disappear or die after coming into my orbit. Mr. Swain's rant about me. I don't know, maybe he was right, maybe I'm out of place. Over a year had passed since the world made sense. I wasn't feeling sorry for myself. I'd gone beyond that.

I was just fucking mad. Mad at the world, and hearing Paul Farron laughing at my plight, mad at him too. Bitchy swaths. Not just any soup. Bitchy swas. I want answers, Paul. And you're the only damn person in the world who seems to have any. I don't know who you are or what.

what your deal is, but you know something. You knew I'd see your name in that phone book. You knew that thing at the seance. I want answers. That's a fair response. If I'd almost been melted, I might be angry, too. Come on in and get some butter tarts, if you want. Or don't, do what you like.

Everybody likes butter tarts. How do you feel about heroic vandalism? He disappeared into his house, laughing. A cabin-style home with well-tended ornamental gardens. next to a junkyard. Aside from the junkyard, it was pretty. I had been expecting a muddy corner of a trailer park. The inside was bare, yet homey, like the inside of a pirate ship, all wood and a rope hammock. Each step produced comforting creeks, and the smells were earthy and safe. I had an instant liking to the place, just like I instantly liked Paul.

Help yourself. He dropped a whole tray of butter tarts on the table. Seeing them reminded me I hadn't eaten since pennies, and that was just a cookie. I didn't need to be told twice. There are dangerous things out there, Julie. You're close to the finish line. You just have to play your cards right. Or you might end up a new state of matter. I just saw my childhood friend's mother murdered in front of me.

This butter tart, it's really good. Clearly not store-bought. She served me some awful cookies called Spont. because that's what she could afford. She was just a poor woman. She lived a sad life because her daughter, Judy, my friend, was kidnapped years ago.

Nobody cared enough back then to find her. We told them about the calls. Nobody cared. Suddenly Judy's so important. So important I have to be interrogated. Stocked? Melted? They have to kill this poor woman?

Why? Who are you? Who is Mr. Rook? Where is Judy? I think you know. Hmm, you talk to Rook. He drummed his fingers on the table for a few deep breaths. He stared out the window where a hummingbird was taking advantage of a feeder.

I'll tell you all I know. First, stuck up in carbohydrates and tell me everything that has happened to you. I did as he asked. I took him through Judy's disappearance, the calls, Mr. Swain's behavior, even the housekeeper's penis story, then Rook, Gianna, and the Fotaur group, Backdoor Charlie's dirt, every detail I could recall, while I ate half the tray of butter tarts and drank three glasses of milk.

Now you know what I know. Explain what's going on, please. I'm a man of my word. I'm going to tell you a story that explains everything. If you want to understand, you have to listen carefully. A summer day, 1976, Huntington's retreat, the river rages in the gorge below. The air is crisp.

The wind chills this high in the mountains. A perfect day. The sky isn't as clear as this anywhere in the world. That's Huntington's retreat. At Huntington's retreat, far away from everyone else, you can hear the world better. You can hear yourself better. There's nowhere else like Huntington's retreat.

I wondered what this had to do with anything. But Paul hadn't lied to me yet, so I listened carefully. Trying to grab something solid in the flow of words as the effects of the tarts, milk, leaving adrenaline, and the day's exertions took hold. He'd hardly started the story, and I was getting drowsy. Two graduate students in the field of communications technology, radio, telephone, all the ways humans form networks have been at Huntington's retreat for weeks, one of them a brilliant researcher.

The other believes in his colleague's work and assists, rides his coattails more like. On this summer day, several weeks into their stay, these two researchers make a discovery that will change the world. They came to Huntington's retreat to complete their studies in isolation, and with access to its unique resources, Huntington's retreat is not a retreat after all, but an independent research lab. Built by Huntington Reinhold, after whom Huntington's retreat is named. He was heir to some absurd fortune, and he didn't have much ambition until he became observes. Julie? Tiana? Who invited you?

After my experience with the seance and the bowl, I had developed a distrust for her. I understand why you're angry. She had a device in her hands. It was a brass and glass machine. It looked old and expensive. Paul Ferran is a very ill man. He had a bad trip in the 70s

because of Carlos Castaneda. He's one of my patients. He gave you a nerve biotoxin, Julie. I'm fine. We stared each other down for a minute before she changed her focus to the box. I had a carved wooden box in my hand. The wood was ebony. I was sure.

You need to put that box down. Huntington's retreat was catching signals we didn't understand. Paul was outside chopping wood. Gianna turned a valve on her machine until it began hissing. You've been polluted. What is that? By the world. You've suffered so long.

What is that? Your mind plagued with doubts and fears. Don't you want to be a pure substance again? This is a siphon. We can distill you. Pure substance? Baroxide. Ho-ho.

I kicked the siphon out of her hands. It landed next to her feet. releasing a blast of steam. She slid slowly into the spout with undignified heavy breaths, as if in labor. There were hummingbirds around with indifference to the situation. A signal that was completely new, older than the very earth we stood upon, from the most ancient luminous objects in our universe. Mr. Swain was sitting on the floor in a sort of control room, just above his office.

I went back to work since Gianna was distilled. His eyes were gouged out, but I could still tell he was ogling me. He put his hand on my leg. It was never Judy. I apologized profusely. I couldn't move away. Couldn't move at all. That made me apologize more.

A new study is born. Mr. Swain had to leave for his shift as a waiter. I wondered if the customers would be alarmed by his eyes. So I went to the beach. with Judy. It would be the last time before we moved to another city, unfamiliar. Morgan Freeman was walking along just wetting his feet. You girls? They're out of trouble. It wasn't the same. The light was cold. These are energies of pure creation. Nobody was responsible enough to have that power. Rook disagreed. He built a tower. We just moved. Judy's room in the house overlooked the

the whole neighborhood. It was old and dirty, quiet and strange. We had our boxes. Judy didn't want to let me sit on her new bed. You're too heavy now. I was in the best shape of my life, I thought, but I accepted her judgment. The bed was very nice. Judy, you're okay? I'm busy. Man problems. Okay. Let's go out in the sun. The sun was a lot. The sun was a little bit of burning red. We stepped out onto the squalid street where a little boy was filling a water bottle with water running down the street's gutter. I knew it was flammable. You, Julie, can't be accounted for. I couldn't see him anywhere. Not even in the attic window so high up. I had to shield my eyes from the red. The sun's poisoned. Take the box to the top. Open the box. That's concerning.

If you want to shut down the tower, take the box to the top. A mattress caught on fire. I was concerned about the water burning. Judy and I retreated into the crawl space. I should shut down the tower. The previous owner's stuff is down here. That's concerning. Or don't. It's your life.

The fire from the mattress spread to the gutter. I was concerned. I tumbled out of a hammock, unsure how I got into it. The sun was shining directly onto my face. I felt hot and dry, disoriented, and like some weight had been left on my chest all night. My breasts were sore. I stumbled to the kitchen feeling 200 pounds heavier to find the butter tart tray empty, save for crumbs. I remembered I was at Paul Ferran's place.

I called for Paul, but I couldn't find him. It was like the police station all over again. I was alone. I'd slept through most of Paul's story. missed all the answers he'd promised. Snippets I'd heard overnight came back to me, but I wasn't sure how much was real and how much dream. I think Paul Farron and Mr. Rook were partners once,

knew each other's tricks, and the tower, Rook's Tower. I felt it had to be the same tower Mr. Swain mentioned, where he could speak to Judy. Somehow it was the cause of what was happening, and I could shut it down with the box. There was a box.

It was real. I picked up the ebony wooden cube from beside the butter tart tray. I didn't think I should open it yet. I had to take it to the tower first. I heard a voice from outside. Someone called my name, I thought. It wasn't Paul. I spotted an antique siphon left next to the front door.

Paul's clothes were left next to it. I didn't think it was there before. I ran to my car without looking around further. One of Rook's goons stepped out from behind Paul's cabin. I sped off. He was right. They would never leave me alone. I knew where I was going.

Back to Skellytown. I stood before the burnt-out husk that was once Mr. Swain's BMW. It didn't look like it had ever left the spot since I'd last been there. If so, had the local sheriff really come out here? Was there ever an investigation? One thing Mulberry had been truthful about. There were no trailers along the dirt road. trash heaps, furniture, and appliances dropped out of pickups.

I wondered where the man with the chicken had come from, and the light. As I stared into the minuscule dust devils, I thought about what I was doing and how my life had changed since that day I'd last been there, how I may finally be coming to the end of this road. A sense of the unreal left me detached from what I was doing, as if I were still sleeping in front of a tray of butter tarts. It would be a long trek, and I had no way. real idea where I was going. I only had Mr. Swain's assurance that it would be nearby. So, I smeared

myself with my favorite sunblock and set out to the sight I'd met him a year ago. In full sun, the walk was even less pleasant, and the dust caked to my skin because of the sunblock. I made it to the spot mid-afternoon. The ceremonial dagger remained stuck in the ground in front of the long dead fire. I was relieved to see Mr. Swain's corpse was not there, however. I took his knife and tucked it into my belt before leaving the site. I stood on the nearby rock to scan for anything one might describe as a tower. I couldn't estimate how far away it was, but I saw something in the distance. The wind blew clouds of dust in front of and around it.

This skeletal structure stood out, despite nature's efforts. When I caught a clear glimpse of the tower, I instantly felt nauseous. I fought the urge to vomit because I didn't want to become dehydrated in the desert. I scrambled back down the rock and continued on my journey. I walked for a few more hours before the tower felt within reach. The sun was setting, and the sound of the desert changed, became more alien. Life that had been hiding from the sun moved in the distances. I could hear them.

I gripped the dagger handle tightly. The ground closer to the tower was littered with dead things, birds that I assumed had fallen out of the sky, and the creatures that had come to eat them. I could see them in the few remaining fluorescent security lights that hung at odd angles from their posts. Chain-link fence that once surrounded the tower protruded through the sand,

like the fossilized husks of long-dead predators. Trails of barbed wire rattled against them when the wind blew. The tower itself was a rectilinear structure of rusting metal grids. It appeared to have been abandoned for a long time. The security Mr. Swain claimed to bribe, nowhere in view. At the base of the tower, oil barrels were scattered half-hazardly. The nausea hadn't returned. I felt exhausted, dehydrated, and still so heavy and sluggish, but otherwise fine.

The tower had a steep staircase that seemed to go most of the way up. A gate once prevented entry, but the padlock had been broken or rusted off. I had come all this way. I had every intention of going up. Still, I hesitated. I stood at the bottom of the tower and drank more of my water, more than I should have. I saw something move swiftly at the edge of the light. Dust kicked up and one of the dead creatures disappeared.

The thing moved too fast to see. Whatever was out there that night with Mr. Swain? They'd claw into me, he said. I needed powerful legs to get away, he'd said. I wasn't going to wait in. see, I began ascending the tower, the metal steps groaning under my weight, only 135 pounds, but it felt like 300. Each step was a struggle and progressively more difficult. The nausea returned. My hands shook. I paused and listened while I caught my breath on the third landing.

Nothing was following me up the tower, at least. I drank some more of my water. I shouldn't have. Then struggled up more steps. I was nearly pulling myself using the railing. My eyes throbbed, in their sockets. The top landing was in sight, where a ladder led up to a glass box, but I couldn't climb a single step further. I tried and collapsed. My face was hot, sweat poured down my forehead. The sounds from below irritated me like foil on teeth. My vision blurred slightly. From the box above, I heard that sound. I'd never forget that sound. I said nothing. I wanted nothing to do with Rook. To Judy here.

Fuck off. Julie, I love you. Fuck off. You hear me? Fucking fuck. Damn it! The yelling made my whole head throb. My chest ached.

I barely felt like I could stand. I was going to die on this stupid tower arguing with a Galaxy S-10, I thought. You have to move the flathead screwdriver and flashlight from the box to the left of the ladder. Return to the base of the tower and open. one of the barrels using the flathead screwdriver from the drawer to the left of the ladder. Inside the barrels is pure ubiquithic. Dows your chest in ubiquit thick using your hands, only your chest and hands. Work the ubiquitous between your breasts and over your breasts and around your breasts.

Careful to get no ubiquit thick anywhere but on your chest and hands. beneath your breasts and over your breasts and around you. I'm not going to do that, asshole. Why are you here? I ignored him. I let my bag slide off my back and rummaged for the box. I expected to feel some relief, but I felt just as heavy. Are you here to die?

I'm going to get this box to the top of your tower, rook, even if it kills me. You have too much mass. in your body. On my hands and knees, I made it up another step. Then another. If you destroy the equipment in this tower, you'll never be able to speak to Judy. Another and another.

I was getting close to the ladder. It was a struggle just to breathe. She is alive. You can talk to her here. She slipped. You have too much mass. Julie. Julie.

I had a hand on one rung. I had no idea how I'd make it up. I'd throw the damn box up there if I had to. Julie, Julie, I'm scared. Please. Shut up! I'm scared, Julie. Stop!

I felt like I was being crushed. My breasts were like bowling balls smashing against my ribs. I saw the metal lockbox to the right of the ladder. I opened it to find a few tools inside. including a flashlight and screwdriver. I took them and crawled back to the stairs. I slid down, one step at a time, each one tenderizing my flesh. Soon I felt lighter.

Air flowed back into my lungs, my vision unblurred. I almost felt normal when I got to the bottom. I went to the nearest barrel. I wiped off the dust-covered label, ubiqu thick. Like Rook said, I still had no idea what this substance was. I dropped the screwdriver on the barrel and gripped Mr. Swain's knife from my belt. I waited, waited until I felt desert dust exploding toward me, the steps nearing, and I slashed. Something shrieked, blood dripped down the knife, but I saw nothing.

I grabbed the screwdriver and got prying quickly as I could, listening for more sounds. The lid popped open. The pure Ubek thick was gelatinous, like a runny petroleum. jelly. I removed my shirt, dunked my hands into the tub, and smeared the substance over my breasts. It felt cool, refreshing, almost like mint or tea tree oil. It didn't smell like anything. I did, as Rook said, coating the underside of my breasts and sides and all over. As soon as I'd done so, I felt lighter than air, like I could jump ten feet. I took in a deep breath, enjoying the relief.

You should have persisted, Julie. You were close. I gasped and held my shirt over my chest. Paul Farron was standing right in front of me. He looked like a disappointed parent. I was so shocked to see him. I didn't notice he was naked at first. Where'd you come from?

I've always been here. It's not too late. If you choose, you can still take the box to the top of the tower. You take it. I can't ascend the tower. He's made sure of that. He'll try to deceive you again. There's more to it than that.

So? One of those things came toward Paul, but combusted before it could reach. It looked human, mostly. I tried putting the fire out with my shirt, but the shirt caught fire. Now I was shirtless and cupping with my hands. Dying! Do something! Who are you? I didn't wait for his answer.

He wasn't going to provide one anyway. I climbed the stairs again, this time with no difficulty. My steps were light and free. the shrieks below had stopped mercifully by the time I reached the ladder. On top, I found the entrance to the glass box wide open. The hum of machinery was oppressive. The equipment looked ancient but was clearly functional. Slumped in a corner.

A long, desiccated corpse eyed my thighs from empty sockets. He must have climbed up there to die. Above him, a radio on a golden dais spoke. Do you see? He was never speaking to Judy here. It was all lies. He did. Judy belongs to photo.

You are his. Who? Mr. Swain? What are you? Open the box, Julie! Julie is here. Call for her using the receiver. It won't be her.

I opened the box. As soon as I did, I could hear Paul Farron's feet stomping up the metal steps. I'm scared. Julie, Julie, what if... Why are you scared of Paul? Fotor. Fotor? Paul is working for Fotor?

Eclipsed. We're all in Fotor. Julie, help. I'm scared to die. Paul had reached the top of the ladder. He smashed the radio first, with his bare hands. He trampled Mr. Swain's corpse to do it, sending a plume of corpse dust.

Then he moved on to the other pieces of equipment. Get back in the box! What? The Julie box. Get back where you belong. You're done. In a fraction of a second, Rooks and Paul's words added up, and I think I understood some part of what it meant.

I walked up to Paul, reached behind his head, and pulled his face down into the cool, gelatinous ubiqu thick that still coated my breasts. I smashed and rubbed them over his face so he was smeared in the stuff. He pulled away and looked at me, as if to say,

what have you done? But he didn't actually say, anything. A light flashed. I don't know where from. A loud boom. Then I heard a window breaking somewhere in the distance. Kids laughing mischievously. Two girls giggling to themselves. Someone singing ace of bass far away. It opened up my eyes I saw. A car drives up. I see it now. In my mind, it's a memory. A car drives up and a man gestures. One of the girls gets up to go, but the other calls her back. Together, they watch the car and the unknown man drive away.

They spend the rest of the afternoon getting sunburned from lying out too long, while the boys across the street steal glances. They scold each other the next day for the sunburns, but in truth, it was the best sunburn ever. Just an average day, a normal day, one of the best normal days they'd never forget. It's a good memory of happy times. They grew up and went their separate ways,

met new friends in college. Sometimes we still talk on social media. Judy was okay, and Paul Farron was gone. The machines were dead. I descended the tower cautiously. The creatures seemed to have left. I began the long trek back to my car in the dark, hoping I wouldn't, but not really caring if I got lost.

And nothing's been the same from that moment on. Been listening to Sunburn by Jared Roberts. Produced for the No Sleep podcast by Phil Mikulski. Starring Kristen D. Mercurio as Julie, Mick Wingert, as Paul Farron, Peter Lewis as Mr. Rook, David Cummings, as Mr. Swain, Nicole Doolin,

as Blanchford, Aaron Lillis as Penny, Mary Murphy as the housekeeper, Nicole Goodnight as Judy, Sarah Thomas as Dot, Nicole Doolin as Gianna, Mike Delgadoo as Zax, Danielle McCray as Bev, Alexis Bristow as Stella, Dan Zepula as Jake, Graham Rowett as Mulberry, Wafia White as Ruby Andrew Tate as Stuart Atticus Jackson as the Goon Andy Cresswell as Rinalto Gregory Whitfield as Morgan Freeman

and Erica Sanderson as Mrs. Mulberry The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone Thank you for joining us at the No Sleep Podcast. This concludes our 15th season. Please visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn more about the show and the season pass program. Season 16 pre-orders will begin mid-March. Follow us on most social media outlets at No Sleep Podcast to stay up to date with our show. Stay tuned in the coming weeks for two episodes of our sleepless decompositions series.

before season 16 premieres on April 4th. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. As always, stay sleepless. This audio production is copyright 2021 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyright for this story is held by Jared Roberts. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted. without the written consent of Creative Reason Media 8.